


La petite mort

by Alphawave



Series: Gas 'em blast 'em [4]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: AKA Caustic learns how to apologise (sorta) and get laid (sorta), Aftercare, Also known as 'Doc Caustic's thicc beats to slap to', Anal Sex, Canon Disabled Character, Caustic sticks his thumb VERY close to Fuse's eye socket be warned, Eye Trauma, Frottage, Light BDSM, M/M, Painplay, Power Play, Prosthesis, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29718759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphawave/pseuds/Alphawave
Summary: Caustic has always been fascinated by death. Whether it is a physical death, or an emotional one. The death of a loved one, or the death of a relationship.But Fuse won't let their relationship die before it has a chance to live, and Caustic will learn that the sweetest death of all is also the littlest one.
Relationships: Caustic | Alexander Nox/Fuse | Walter Fitzroy
Series: Gas 'em blast 'em [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148978
Comments: 19
Kudos: 61





	La petite mort

There is a common misconception that Alexander Nox does not feel emotion. Despite many calling him a sociopath he is capable of emotions, but emotions get in the way of progress and science. They have to be pushed down, these independent variables that might mess up his precious results, bringing chaos and ruin if they are to run rampant. In his line of work, one has to be cruel to be kind. Pick out the rotting weeds so the crops may grow. Be cruel to those with potential so that they may one day flourish. To continue his work he must fake his own death and make his mother’s heart bleed onto the carpet and become even more emotionless so that others may not find out his true identity.

It’s a sacrifice he’s made so many times, and it’s a sacrifice he will make so many times in the future. 

Death has always fascinated him. The death of a relationship is no stranger to him, and they are often equally as fascinating as the death of a living creature, human or otherwise. The ways someone can be killed are limitless, not just in the literal sense but in the spiritual and the mental. A sharp knife to the heart can become so intimate when delivered by a loved one. The wails of sorrow as someone is rejected time and time again can be so beautiful. The choking gasp as their lungs are poisoned by his gas is music to his ears.

So yes, in a sense he does feel. But he doesn't want those feelings to ruin him and his research, like it did his parents when they met each other and gave everything up to raise a child together. He won't make their foolish mistake. He swore this from the moment he left his childhood home decades ago.

And yet right now he feels a strange emotion that drags his attention away from experiments and variables. A one-eyed Salvonian’s face in the airglow, the image permanently affixed in the corner of his vision, taunting him wherever he goes. A face that, if he is to acknowledge its presence, does two things to him. First, it pulls his body further into the ground, making him feel heavier, more sensitive to pain, more irritable,  more _irrational_ . The second, a whirlwind of sensory memories erupt, of chapped lips against chapped lips, of beer and meat cloying the air, of his chest rising and falling, the thrill of death drumming in his veins even though he knows that he is still alive and still breathing.

Try as he might, he cannot concentrate on even his experiments. Fuse has ruined him. And he wants to hate it. But the most curious thing is that he can’t. Whenever he thinks of Fuse, whenever he tries to let the bile and the rot bubble up to the surface, he doesn't feel anger or rage. Instead he feels emptiness, like a C4 plant starved of sunlight, unable to photorespirate.

That is probably the best descriptor for what he feels. He cannot breathe, and when he can’t breathe he can’t think. And if he desires his research to grow and eventually blossom, he needs to wrestle control over his mind once more and deal with Fuse once and for all.

And that meant apologising.

Caustic is not good with apologies.

It’s a fault of his that he still needs to rectify. He is certain the perfect apology will win him back the trust of Natalie, but she is a complex case for a fascinating yet complex mind. Fuse is not a complex mind. Far from it. He’s impulsive, wears his heart on his sleeve. Easily manipulated under certain circumstances. Plus, the incident in question is quite clearly of less destruction than the incident involving Natalie.

And yet he somehow struggles to figure out how to properly apologise to Fuse. Will a spoken apology do? Would he prefer something written? A gift? Will Caustic be forced to do something for Fuse once again? All these independent variables multiply, getting so overly complex that he decides to just go with the simplest solution. A direct confrontation will be best. It was directness, after all, that led to the chain of events that allowed the two of them to be acquainted.

(If his face is pink while he thinks this, it’s all because of prolonged exposure to laboratory conditions. It has nothing to do with Walter ‘Fuse’ Fitzroy himself.)

As he expects, he finds Fuse at the Paradise Lounge, stealing the attention effortlessly like a thief in the spotlight. Mirage is wincing audibly, trying not to squirm as Fuse expertly dips his dagger in between Mirage’s fingers for a game of five finger filet. Octane is of course watching with interest, as are Mirage’s friends, Wraith and Rampart. Natalie, to his surprise is also watching this ridiculous act with morbid curiosity, the troglodyte Crypto not too far behind her, pointedly ignoring this ridiculous show of manhood by fidgeting with his drone. The fact that Crypto is the most sensible one here all but confirms Caustic's theories as to the mental capacities of these so-called legends. 

He tries to ignore the latter two, instead focusing on Fuse and the way he handles his knife. He’s confident and relaxed, though it is clear that he is concentrating. He thrusts the dagger up and down, the tip barely grazing the fabric of Mirage’s gloves, blade silver and shiny and very natural in his grip, as if it is but an extension of himself. Caustic idly wonders if Fuse will be that calm and collected later, thrusting shallow, features sharpening as all his attention is focused on this single act. Will he be calm, or will he fully, truly concentrate only on Alexander when the situation demands it?

He silently reprimands himself for the intrusive thought. He is not a teenager, and he is certainly not entertaining a hypothesis he has no way of proving. He will mend bridges, but he will not submit to Fuse’s baser desires.

He won’t submit to his own baser desires, the little voice in his head taunts him.

"Ahem," Caustic clears his throat loudly. 

All eyes turn towards him. The distraction is enough for Mirage to carefully slip his hand out of Fuse’s grip.

He feels Natalie and Crypto glare at him, the latter closing the distance and approaching him. To protect her? A ridiculous and naïve sentiment. Natalie is a participant in a blood sport, and she is a genius in her own right. She can very well handle herself. Not that he will say it out loud. He won’t play his hand until Crypto plays his.

By the bar, Fuse stares at him with his singular eye, his expression for once unreadable. It’s not anger, to his relief, but it’s not completely happy. Why is Caustic so relieved he’s not angry?

"Caustic," Crypto says lowly.

"I’m not here for you," Caustic grunts. "I’m here for him." He points at Fuse.

"Fuse?" Crypto says, confused.

"Wait, you wanna talk to him and not Watts—ooof!" Mirage is swiftly elbowed in the stomach by Wraith. Fuse, to his benefit, doesn’t react beyond the quirk of an eyebrow. All eyes are on Fuse as he stands up slowly and places one boot on the bat stool, pocketing the knife in the sheathe near his ankle. Then, he leans his arm over his knee, balancing his weight on his leg. Throughout the entire act he does not take his eye off Caustic.

He’s gauging him, Caustic realises. Sizing him up, thinking up all the ways he can take him down. Caustic must admit, he’s doing the same. Although he wonders if their definition of a ‘takedown’ is the same in this very instance.

"Surprised you’d show yer face around here. Didn’t think ya wanna see lil ol’ me. Not after the stunt you pulled."

"We need to talk. Privately," Caustic stresses.

"Privately? Just the two of us? You sure I ain’t gonna poison ya, mate? Or shank ya? ‘Cause that’s what all the bloody Salvos do, they just all live for murder and backstabs and betrayals." His voice takes on a rare, dangerous hiss.

"Uhh…am I missing something here?" Mirage whispers.

"Shh!" Rampart punches his shoulder lightly.

"Ow! That’s my good arm!"

"This is a matter I would rather be discussed behind closed doors," Caustic insists. 

"From what I heard," Fuse nods to Natalie and Crypto, "you ain’t got a great track record of making deals behind closed doors."

He grits his teeth. "This has nothing to do with them."

"So what is it about? Ya gonna tell the whole class or shall I?" Fuse asserts.

Caustic hesitates. Not here. He will not say it here. He will not give Fuse the glory of seeing Caustic the apex legend die and be reborn as Alexander. But he must give some answer. He won’t let Fuse get away.

"It’s a personal matter between you and I alone," he ultimately says. "What I plan to say is for your ears only, and if you blab anything about it to anyone else, you prove to me that my judgment about you was correct after all. This is your final chance. Will you listen, or will you stay here with the rest of the dogs?"

Fuse’s features scrunch up for a few seconds, his singular eye narrowing sharply. It’s the first time Caustic can remember Fuse losing his cool, even if he is the only one that seemed to notice. Everybody else seems oddly focused on him for a change, and when they do turn back to Fuse, his expression is unreadable once more. 

Fuse sighs. "Save a cold one for me later, will ya, Mirage? I’ll see you pups later."

"Wait, you’re not seriously going to go in a room alone with Mr. ‘Breathe it in’?!" Mirage screeches.

"I’ll be back." Fuse turns to Caustic and lets slip a smirk. "Don’t think he’ll give me a hard time."

Caustic grunts. "Don’t test your luck or my patience."

Fuse waves goodbye but says no more as he follows Caustic out of the Paradise Lounge and into Caustic’s apartment. The trip is short but silent, not that Fuse needs to say anything in words. His body language is primed and ready for attack, and his stubby fingers hover close to the dagger near his hip. Despite this he maintains not the self assured smirk he wears for the Games but a mellow smile that reminds Caustic of the rich golden petals of a  _ Helianthus annuus.  _ A happy smile, the kind often seen on holiday commercials advertising the latest space cruise to the Fringe worlds and back. The sugary, saccharine yet genuine smile that makes Alexander feel weak and helpless.

It’s almost too happy.

Does Fuse know what is about to occur?

No words are exchanged when Caustic swipes the keycard for his apartment. Force of habit makes his fingers reach for his mask, but stops himself short of pulling it off. Fuse—or perhaps it’s better to say Walter now that they are behind closed doors—is observing him fairly closely but chooses not to comment. 

They walk over to the singular table in Alexander’s temporary residence, but do not sit down. Walter crosses his arms and leans against the corner of the wall closest to the entrance while Alexander moves to observe his plants. Two of the plants are wilting. The others stubbornly cling on to life, with the newest addition to his collection not only surviving but thriving under his care. This one he picked out the day after his last meeting with Walter in this very room. If there is meaning to its plumage Alexander refuses to acknowledge it.

"Well? I'm waiting," Walter says.

Alexander straightens his back and dares himself to turn and face Walter. "By the fact you accompanied me here, you know why I asked to meet with you alone."

"Think I do," he says, taking one step forward. "Think I know exactly why you sought me out."

Alexander bites back the instinct to take a step back, and forces himself to do the opposite. He shall meet Walter’s challenge, one foot forward at a time.

"We have unfinished business," Alexander says.

"Oh do we now? I almost forgot about it. Good thing my mates reminded me of what an ass you are. Told me what you did to Lobs and Watts."

"They do not care about you."

"And you do?"

Alexander hesitates yet again. He does not care. He should not care. That should be such an obvious answer. And yet he cannot bring himself to open his mouth, to tell Walter what should be such an obvious truth.

Walter tilts his head, smiling. "You really are a right cunt, Alexander."

Bit by bit Alexander feels his defenses wither away. He’s the one who invited Walter, he’s the one who made every preparation in case a fight does break out. He knows hundreds of ways to turn that dagger on Walter’s person against him, but he still feels its invisible blade press against his trachea, making him bleed red.

He’s prepared for this moment, but he realises too late that Walter also has been waiting for this opportunity. Alexander blinks, and suddenly Walter is so close he can smell his rancid body odour and the tinge of alcohol amongst his lips. 

He knows what is about to occur. He can stop this any time he wants. He just has to tell him, or better yet make it clear with his body. But all he can let out is a pathetic whisper of a sentence. 

"Profanity is ugly."

But Walter laughs, brash and clear, stabbing Alexander in the chest with hundreds of little needles. "Maybe," he smirks. "But back on Salvo, when I call someone a cunt, it ain’t an insult. But it’s certainly profane."

A metal hand presses onto Alexander’s shoulder, burning the skin beneath his clothes. The other, fleshier hand presses against his chest, as if to feel the bumps and grooves of his blackened heart. It slowly travels downwards, fingertips trailing along a hidden path, the lightest pressure pressing against clothed skin as if to memorise the textures and the colours. Alexander feels disassociated from his body, because there is no way he is letting a man he’s barely had a handful of conversations with touch him so sinfully, but he cannot move. He does not move. Not even when Walter’s stubby fingers begin to trail across his inner thigh, sparking miniature explosions that threaten to destroy his foundations.

"Kinda breathing heavy there, darl. Might wanna remove the mask."

Walter’s words bring into sudden attention his increased rate of breathing. Not that he can do anything about it. No matter how hard he breathes, he feels like he is not getting any air. 

What is happening to him? Why can’t he stop Walter? A paralytic? A drug? But his mind is clear and he can feel every touch. Oh, he can feel everything. Every little bit of heat, every little pattern Walter teases, every slow second painfully chipping away at his health. He feels it all.

It’s uncomfortable. It’s shameful. It’s wrong. It's everything vulgar and twisted about human nature.

He  _ likes  _ it.

Why does he like it?

When Walter finally cups his groin, a hiss escapes his lips. Light flickers in Walter’s singular eye, too fast for Alexander to comprehend.

"That an extra grenade in your inventory or are you just happy to see me?"

"T-this is not me being happy." He hisses again as Walter begins to play with his testicles through his pants, his fists scrunched tight by his side, ready to throw a punch Alexander doesn't know if he can even pull.

"Well, it ain’t a grenade, that’s for sure," Walter says. "And even if they were, doubt they’re primed just yet. But I can help with that."

Something finally snaps within him, and soon Alexander’s gloved hand reaches for Walter’s neck. With a burst of strength he shoves Walter all the way through the hallway, into the bedroom and throws him down onto the bed, firmly pinning him in place as he crawls in for the kill. He expects anger, surprise, not this sultry smirk as if being forcefully pinned down is exactly where Walter wants to be.

If he is honest with himself, it's where he wants to be as well.

The realisation hits him almost as hard as a sniper bullet to the chest. His lungs burn and his skin is on fire and his mind is cloudy and it's all Walter's fault.

Walter laughs suddenly, as if reading his thoughts. His hand presses firmer into Walter's shoulder, pushing him down painfully into the sheets. He growls, "I should throw you out into the trash where you belong."

"Then throw me out," he laughs again. "Ain’t the first time I’ve been kicked out at closing time."

"It’s far too late for that. You don't even deserve that simple kindness." His hand brushes against the front of Walter’s pants, that one remaining eye wide and glistening in surprise. "I have something else in mind."

Alexander forces his hand upon the front of Walter’s crotch, tugging at his genitals through the thick material of his jeans. He’s not gentle with his ministrations, cataloguing every shiver that runs down Walter’s spine and every sharp inhale that results from his movements. His hand curls around what he assumes to be Walter’s testicles and he pulls roughly. Walter groans lewdly. Alexander finds that he likes that noise coming out of Walter’s mouth. Perhaps because it sounds so much like the groan of a dying man on his last breath. Or maybe he likes to see Walter lose even a little bit of that infamous composure. Whatever it is, it's a data point that he can extrapolate from later, long after he's had his fill of Walter Fitzroy.

"Figures the scientist likes to experiment," Walter pants. 

Alexander ignores the comment. "If this is to continue, then you will abide by my rules. There will be no nicknames, there will be no mess, and there will be no visible marks on my person. I can and will stop this any time I choose. Is that understood?"

But Walter chuckles, more at himself than at Alexander. "You really wanna do this? Won't be as fun if you ain't also down to party."

"This is simply data," Alexander says smoothly. "There is nothing more to it. No other independent variables."

"Then I'll just have to make sure you get some good data, ay?" He pushes his hips up against Alexander’s hand and grinds slowly, breathing heavier as his jaw sets tight, focusing on his own pleasure. The haze within Caustic’s mind has seeped into his vision. Walter's erection is...smaller than he expects, but no less firm, and thick enough for Alexander to curl his fingers around. The steady pace of that hardness stroking along his sensitive palm, even when gloved, is enough to make him clench his teeth tight so that any pesky noises won't escape his burning throat. 

The data is acceptable, but nowhere near enough. He needs more. Much, _much_ more.

Alexander crawls onto the mattress and pulls Walter’s legs apart to frame his sides. He shoves his hips towards Walter’s hips, half erections grinding against half erections. Walter gasps, and Alexander almost gasps too if he didn’t bite down on his lip to prevent such a lecherous noise from escaping his ravaged throat. He shifts his hips at a slow but firm pace, observing the pink flush creeping up Walter’s skin, the pronounced collarbone bobbing up and down with his heavy breaths, the way the fabric of his cotton shirt sticks so tight to his sweat-slicked skin. A common enough sight on the battlefield, but in the safety and comfort of his apartment's bedroom has taken on a lecherous, sinful quality. He can't tear his gaze away even if he tried.

"God, didn’t know you’d be so filthy with me," Walter whispers.

"Quiet," Alexander rasps.

"I’ve been fucking my fist just dreaming about this moment. Ya think I’d shut up now while I’m livin’ the dream?" Walter gasps.

"You will either shut up, or I will make you shut up." Alexander discards his gloves with an audible snap, placing them carefully at the edge of the bed.

"Try m— _ mmph _ !" Several thick fingers suddenly enter his mouth without warning. Walter’s eye flickers between the fingers in his mouth and then slowly up to Alexander’s masked face. His eye twinkles mischievously, and Alexander realises that even with the mask on, Walter knows he is smiling. Walter laughs with his body, mirth and lust painting his every body movement.

Before Alexander can interpret what this means, Walter’s fleshy hand wraps around Alexander’s wrist and pulls, forcing Alexander’s fingers deeper into his throat. He inhales sharply, a moan muffled by Alexander’s skin. Having his fingers in Walter’s mouth is filthy enough and yet somehow it’s that loose grip wrapped around his wrist that makes his vision go cloudy. The wet sensation combined with the purposeful flicks of that tongue is enough to send weak men to their knees, but Alexander Nox is far from a weak man.  And then Walter sucks on his fingers, his torturous tongue slipping into the sensitive webbing before dragging up and repeating the whole process over and over again. Alexander moans, brash and loud. It's a sound he hasn't ever heard from his lips before. A sound he knows will spell the death of him.

Walter pulls away just enough to suckle at the tips of Alexander's fingertips, a knowing smirk upon his face. His swollen lips pull away with a pop and then a soft gasp.

"You sounded real filthy there,  _ Alexander.  _ I like it."

Alexander suppresses a shiver (why is he shivering? It’s not cold) as he pulls at Walter’s vest, throwing it away recklessly. Walter doesn’t waste this opportunity by toeing his boots off and shimmying his pants down. His briefs are a bright yellow and are so tight that they leave little to the imagination. Alexander figures this was a conscious choice on Walter’s part.

"These are…"

"Budgie smugglers." Walter shakes his hips enticingly. "Wanna help smuggle out my budgie?"

"How very crude," Alexander comments, reaching for the elastic band.

But Walter stops him with a gentle push with his metal hand. "Hold your horses, darl. Tit for tat, tim for tams here. I wanna see you in the nuddy."

The corner of Alexander’s lip dips. "I doubt you’ll like what you see."

"Think I can make my own judgment," Walter says. "Now come on. Get outta those daks for me."

It’s been a long time since another person has seen his face, and even longer since someone has seen his body. Alexander admits that there is a bit of apprehension in doing this, but he shoves it into the back of his mind with all the rest of his emotions and fiddles for the mask upon his face. The apron smock is neatly removed, alongside his underclothes and trousers and rubber boots. He keeps his boxers on for now, though he is aware that his hard on is painfully visible, the outline just jutting out from the whole in the front, a sneak peek of things to come.

That's assuming Walter will want to have anything to do with him once he sees Alexander's body.  Or rather, the things connected to his body. 

Connected to his flesh are various implants and wires, crudely grafted onto pale, scarred skin. Myriads of tubes are connected on either side above his hip, purposefully designed to help the device crudely affixed to his chest let him breathe in and out. An emergency procedure, one that led to a lot of scarring, but fortunately all that scarring is delegated to areas of little consequence like his stomach. It won’t affect his research or his chances in the Games, but it might affect how Walter sees him. It’s given him a few looks the few times he was forced to see a doctor for medical reasons. He expects the same if not worse from Walter.

He thinks his hypothesis is correct when Walter lifts himself up to his elbows. But the expression on his face is not horror or disgust. It’s something else Alexander cannot distinguish. Something softer, with less wrinkles.

It almost looks like…sympathy?

"Crikey…" Walter murmurs. "How…is this…?"

"Don’t touch them," Alexander snaps.

"It’s like you got eaten alive."

"I don’t owe you an explanation for my condition." Alexander doesn’t want to waste words on an event he’d rather leave in the past.

Walter looks confused. Or is that worry? "Mate, I ain’t judging."

"And yet you sound quite judgmental." Why does it hurt to be looked at like this? Like a cadaver ready to be probed at by an unskilled medical student. The look Walter gives him could dissect dinosaurs.

"Look, I…hold on a sec."

His eye flickers to his prosthetic shoulder, rolling it slowly. Carefully, in an almost melodic rhythm, he disengages the arm mechanism by mechanism until it is completely separate from his body. All that is left is a socket grafted onto Walter’s shoulder stump, possibly magnetic in nature by Alexander's hypothesis. Then he goes for the eyepatch, wincing as he tugs it away from its magnetic holder, showing two magnetic indentations framing a gaping cavity where an eyeball would normally sit. A big line slashes across the eye, resulting in a partial tear in his upper eyelid so that anyone can see inside his eye cavity.

"I’ve had my fair share of close calls," Walter says, his voice sounding less sure, more raw than Alexander expects. "Don’t make them ugly in my books."

He’s never found the naked body fascinating, but somehow seeing Walter’s old injuries has truly captured his attention. Though his medical knowledge is admittedly rusty, he can appreciate the handiwork that went into this equipment, mementos of Walter’s own brush with death. Alexander can only dream of how Walter lost these two sacred parts of his body. He suddenly wishes he was there to witness them, so he might document them and further his research. A small death, enough to kill a dream, or a career, or a lesser man. Walter, as Alexander is quickly finding out, is far from a lesser man. These injuries are proof.

The skin on Walter’s neck appears flushed. His mouth is pulled open, his lungs rising and falling at a faster pace. Shame, Alexander realises. With just this bit of conjecture, Alexander could ruin him so absolutely. Make him pray to his warlords for mercy and get rid of the first and maybe even last Salvonian contestant of the Apex Games. And yet he does not. Despite himself, he’s enjoying this unobstructed view, of the man who’s tasted death enough times and lived to tell the tales. Of a man who willingly put down his arm (quiet literally, Alexander notes with muted humour) and exposed his weaknesses. 

He’s never had such a willing test subject before. He will savour this rare opportunity.

Alexander runs his thumb over the metal indentations framing Walter's left eye. "Fascinating," he whispers.

Walter turns his head away. "Ain’t exactly had people ogle my missing eye before."

Alexander presses his thumb just above Walter’s left cheekbone, close to his eye socket. Walter grimaces, but makes no sound. His teeth are clenched too tight. 

"So you can be quiet," Alexander comments.

"Of course the scientist likes to experiment," Walter huffs more to himself than to Alexander.

"You chose to reveal your weaknesses to me. If you failed to consider the consequences of your actions, that is in no conceivable way my fault." His thumb presses a bit higher and a bit firmer, and Walter goes stiff underneath him, squirming uncomfortably. A beautiful display, Alexander admits quietly to himself. If he is this beautiful in pain, imagine the display he will make when he is in utter agony.

When Walter taps hurriedly on the mattress, a subtle enough sign for the real action to begin, Alexander drifts away to rummage through his bedside drawer. It’s been so long since he has been in need for condoms and lubricant, and he curses himself for not preparing for this eventuality.

"B-back pocket of my daks. My, er, jeans," Walter says.

He refrains from commenting on the wrecked tone of Walter’s voice, instead rummaging through Walter’s discarded pants to find an unopened packet of strawberry flavoured condoms and strawberry flavoured lube. By the time he brings the two items back to the bed, Walter’s so called ‘budgie smugglers’ are around his ankles. His hand is curled around his erection, pumping slowly as he licks his lips, a miraculous show of core strength to even keep himself upright in such a position with only one arm.

If this is his attempt to seduce, he’s failing miserably. If this is his attempt at making Alexander smile however, then he almost succeeded. Almost.

Alexander settles the two items by the edge of the bed. While Walter is too distracted putting on his one-man show, he pulls his boxers off and neatly folds them with the rest of his clothes at the foot of the bed. 

"Flavoured prophylactics and lubricant?" Alexander raises an eyebrow.

"Couldn’t wait and let me see you strip?" Walter huffs.

"You’ve already seen too much," Alexander says.

"Gonna kill me for it? Don’t understand why. Already know you got a real beaut of a trunk in the back seat, and now I see the front’s just as loaded," Walter smirks. He doesn’t stop pleasuring himself, even as he obviously ogles Caustic.

"What a wonderful idea. Your demise will be perfect for my experiment." He neatly opens the box and hands a condom to Walter.

Walter rips the packet with his teeth and slides the condom down his length with practiced ease. The wrapper is thrown away behind him with little regard for where it lands. "Foreplay ain’t your strong suit."

"Nor is it yours." Alexander’s still only half-hard, but a few quick strokes is enough for him to be fully prepared. Much as he hates to admit it, it has been a long time since he’s done this with anyone. Perhaps almost too long. He’s never felt this thrill before in the bedroom, akin but not alike that which he feels when he is in the arena. Is it the passage of time that beckons the call of bloodshed in his veins, or is the independent variable in question right here before his very eyes, naked and explosive and still so alive, making him burn from the inside out? 

He slides the condom on and observes Walter carefully. It would be safe to assume Walter would rather be in a receiving position given the definitive lack of a right arm for stability. In all honesty, he almost prefers it this way. Like this, high up and almighty, he knows plenty of ways to bring Walter to that ultimate death. With his hands on his throat, choking away his essence. With his heel to the small of Walter’s back, making him kneel to his intellectual superior. With his lips to the other’s lips, poison transferred with the exchange of saliva and sweet nothings.

A hand on his thigh takes him away from his imagination. Walter is close, choking the oxygen once again with his presence. He scoots himself behind Alexander, strumming what appears to be guitar chords on his back. His breath catches on the shell of Alexander’s ear, hot and heavy and still drenched in alcohol and lust. It lingers in the air, a taste of what is to come. Alexander can't help but shudder. 

"Well?" Walter drawls in a low voice.

Alexander closes his eyes and centres himself. "Well, what?"

That insistent hand is rubbing at his backside, circling over the adipose tissue. This close, Alexander can hear Walter swallow down a groan, the tremors rumbling through his body and transmitting to Alexander’s skin. It’s just like that godawful slap weeks ago. Every logical fibre of his being should hate the sudden breach of personal space, but now he realises why he could not force himself to hate it, and why he’s even allowing himself to be in this position.

He doesn’t hate being touched because he likes being touched. But only when it’s Walter. No one else. 

"Aren’t ya gonna let me give ya a Salvo kiss?" Walter coos into his ear.

"I assume you intend to show me what a Salvonian kiss is," Alexander spits.

"Real simple mate. Ya know what a French kiss is?" Walter waits for an answer but gets none. "Well, I assume ya do. Anyway, it’s just like that, but instead of on the kisser," he drifts lower, hot air caressing Alexander’s sensitive back, "it’s right at the fringe."

Alexander is shoved down onto his stomach while Walter shifts closer. His one hand expertly pops the lube bottle open and spreads the sickly sweet substance onto his ass. The intrusion shocks Alexander, but not as much as when Walter presses his nose to his tailbone and sticks his dirty tongue into his hole. He claws the mattress, teeth clenched tight to stop those infuriating little noises from clawing up his throat. But it’s hard to stay silent when that vicious tongue spears him like a different appendage altogether, each torturous lick spreading fireworks throughout his body. Worse yet, Walter can’t keep silent during this exercise. Even with his mouth fully occupied, his voice rumbles through his swollen lips, spreading across the expanse of Alexander’s skin, daring to make his knees weak and his resolve weaker.

Walter pulls away to catch his breath. "Taste like strawberries."

The lack of stimulation is…unpleasant. Alexander grits his teeth. Walter has stopped for only a second, but in that second his body burns, begging his logical mind to give in and beg for more. Such an odd paradox. Such an infuriating paradox.

"Fitzroy…" he growls.

"Yeah yeah, I gotcha, big fella." He shifts forward and reaches down to grab Alexander by his cock and stroke him off.

Alexander wants to snarl but his voice catches in his throat. His head spins, or perhaps the planet is tilting on its axis, because for what might be the first time in a long, long time, he cannot think. Not for lack of trying, but no matter what he does his mind is blank, leaving him at the mercy of the sparking sizzle of neglected neurons. The pace of Walter’s hand is neither fast nor slow, neither weak nor firm, his thumb gliding over the sensitive head then down a thick vein. It’s as if he has documented every single time Alexander has succumbed to the need to pleasure himself and made notes on how to do the job better. And his notes must have been meticulous, because his hips threaten to buckle against the touch, begging for that extra bit of friction.

Walter sticks his tongue back into Alexander’s ass, and suddenly every sensation is concentrated, sending lightning down his spine. It makes him more aware of the quiver of his legs and the dip of his back and the burn in his chest as he slowly realises he hasn’t been breathing for well over a minute. The haze threatens to infect his mind and his soul, eyes cloudy with the sting of salty tears. He takes a gasping breath eventually, which only makes Walter moan against his hole. The pace of Walter’s tongue gets faster, more erratic, chasing Alexander’s heartbeat with every flick.

This is how he dies, Alexander thinks. With an invisible hand on his throat, making him blink tears into the mattress. With this hand on his neglected cock and this tongue in his neglected ass, rocking his very foundations, stone falling down into the dark, inky moat. With fireworks and explosions, knocking his feeble body closer to the cliff’s edge, a gargantuan drop below to jagged rocks that will tear his flesh asunder. He has a mouth but he cannot scream, cannot shout, cannot moan. It can only whisper. A dying wish on a last breath. 

"Death…" he whispers into the mattress.

"Hmm?" Walter hums against Alexander’s ass, sending another shockwave into his brain stem. His hand doesn’t stop stroking him even now. In his mindscape, Walter is there, right behind Alexander, ready to push him off the proverbial cliff with a smile on his face. 

"Grant me…death," he gasps. 

Walter hums something in the affirmative and twists his tongue in such an odd, yet gratifying way, and it’s just enough to take him over the edge. He falls to the jagged rocks, his systems collapsing together in a soundless cacophony, twitching and spasming for those to witness the moment Alexander Nox dies the sweetest death.

A small death in the grand scheme of things. The littlest death.  _ La petite mort. _ But an important death. Probably the most important death of all.

It takes a while for his brain to finally regain control of his body. Synapses flicker, muscles soft reboot, but he still feels the sparks crackle inside his body every now and then. A reminder of what had just occurred. A reminder of who did this to him.

It takes several seconds after commandeering his body once more that he realises Walter has drifted away. He turns onto his back and sits up as much as he can,

He expects a shit eating grin. A cocky smirk at bringing the almighty Caustic to his knees. But his smile is still small yet charming, no different from what he flashes to the cameras or to his friends. With the crimson tint to his cheeks, sweat beading at his forehead, it somehow looks softer.

Alexander can't stand it.

"Looks like you went off with a bang," Walter breathes.

Alexander does not want to comment. His gaze goes down to Walter’s erection. "You did not reach your…completion?" Even he has to inwardly cringe at the terminology. There must be a better, more scientific way to address the male orgasm outside of the word ‘orgasm’. Something that doesn't sound vulgar, and won't automatically make Walter giggle like a schoolkid.

"As nice of an ass that was, ain’t the kinda bloke that gets off on that alone," Walter admits sheepishly.

"Then what does?"

Walter seems surprised. "You, uh, wanna help me out?"

"Is that so much of a surprise?"

"A bit," Walter murmurs. He’s clever enough not to elaborate.

"It’s all a matter of…efficiency. I would rather you out of my complex sooner rather than later. Additionally, I still have plenty of data to collect from you." That sounds good. Data and efficiency and data efficiency. No petty emotions involved. No attachments made.

"No offence, darl, but you even up for another go?"

"What did I say about nicknames?" Alexander shoves Walter down into the mattress, the latter emitting a squawk as he lands on his back. Alexander shifts forward, legs framing hips, his hand to Walter’s throat. He squeezes, just enough for Walter to feel it, the torture Alexander has been undergoing for the last several minutes. The sweet agony of dying, but never knowing when you are about to perish.

"A-Alexander," Walter gasps.

His gaze sweeps down to the throbbing erection poking Alexander in the hip. Walter’s face is bright red now, an unusual colour that nevertheless looks good on the Salvonian. It’s the colour of blood, or as close to blood without it spilling down his lips and cheeks. If he were to spill Walter's blood, will it be as warm and wet as Alexander assumes? Will Walter revel in it? He must. His face says it all.

"You enjoy the pain."

"W-when it’s consensual," Walter chokes.

Alexander can’t help but click his lips together. If he is smiling, it is just a coincidence. "You willingly agreed to meet with me here, not only stayed but provoked a situation in which this very scenario becomes a possibility. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve given your consent at multiple stages."

"Didn't say this wasn't consensual." He attempts a shallow breath before adding, weaker, "Didn’t say I want you to stop."

Alexander cups Walter’s face, his thumb circling near his left cheekbone, hovering closer and closer to that empty eye socket. Walter squirms a bit, trying to thrash with his good arm, but Alexander knows the trick now. Walter’s whole specialty is making a ruckus, after all.

"You want me to do this." His thumb hovers just over the eyelid, making Walter flinch.

"Ever said you look real hot like this?" Walter smiles weakly.

Alexander chuckles, more to himself than anything Walter has said. He shakes his head, and he swears Walter’s expression has changed into something even more sinful.

"Fitzroy." Yes, there is definitely some data here. Some meaning to that strange expression Walter gives him now that threatens to rearrange his atoms. "Be quiet."

Walter closes his eyes, bites down on his lip and bursts into a bright smirk. There's no strength left in him, but still he manages to let out one final chuckle. One last laugh.

"Make me," he says weakly.

Alexander smirks himself. "I will." The hand on the throat tightens one more as he digs his thumb into the thin skin under Walter’s eye.

There’s a gasp, or an attempt at a gasp, but no sound escapes from Walter’s mouth. His hips jitter, trying to find friction against Alexander’s hips, and when he find it he grinds sharply, frantically, like it might be the last time in his life. Up above, Alexander gets to observe Walter as he closes his eyes shut, head tilted to one side, mouth open and dripping saliva onto the covers. It’s a sight that is not uncommon for those that fall victim to his gas, and yet somehow on Walter’s face it looks almost serene. Erotic. And he can say that he alone is the one to bring this about. Not his gas, not his experiments, just him, the only independent variable for Walter's condition. The only independent variable to leave him squirming, begging for more with just their hips alone. 

Alexander can’t get enough of it. There's still so much data to be obtained. Still so much to observe. 

Walter chokes out another noise, his hand reaching for Alexander’s wrist and squeezing tight. He pretends not to understand for a few seconds, milking those pearly tears and the pathetic whispers of a groan before releasing his grip, cursing the loss of heat when Walter’s hand limps back onto the bed. While Walter breathes heavily, Alexander rolls his hips against Walter’s erection. He quite likely does not have it in him for a second round, but that does not mean he cannot help take Walter quicker to his demise. His thumb presses against Walter’s eyelid, causing him to choke out a moan.

The hand reaches for his wrist again, pulling it back onto Walter’s throat. The initiative surprises Alexander almost as much as his own arousal. There’s this foreign feeling rising inside him again, desperate to be touched, to be defiled, to be worshipped as a god (or as close to one as possible). He can choke Walter all he likes, can even press his thumb into Walter’s eye socket if he felt the desire to, but it's nowhere near enough. There is still so much data to obtain, but how is he going to find it? What experiment can he run?

Walter’s cock brushes against his own, and Alexander breathes heavily. His mind wanders back to moments ago, when a tongue slithered into his backside, hot and wet. He stifles that wanting smile, adjusts himself further forward and positions his ass directly above Walter’s erection.

Walter blearily looks up at Alexander, tears stinging his remaining eye, trying and failing to speak.

"You’re taking too long," Alexander utters, as he slowly descends.

Walter chokes out another noise, but Alexander suppresses it with a tight squeeze on Walter’s throat, enough to keep him quiet and maybe even leave a few nice bruises too. Walter leans his head towards Alexander’s hand, chasing the heat, but Alexander pulls away, only to stick his thumb at the edge of Walter’s swollen lips. He is still the one in control, and he will make sure Walter understands this.

"Open," Alexander orders.

Walter hastily opens his mouth and sucks on the offered thumb like a lollipop, his hips shakily attempting to thrust up into Alexander. The stimulation in his ass is not completely pain free but it is far more pleasant than Alexander expects, as is Walter sucking on his thumb, and for Walter's obedience he obliges him by rolling his hips at a slow, creeping pace, breathing shallowly as he feels that firm erection fill him up so nicely.  Could Walter be an outlier? Is that why none of the data is making sense? Why he still burns even when Walter burns more? Is that why he succumbs to these long dormant instincts, awakening like a slumbering beast, hellbent on experiences long deprived?

He can’t remain objective. There’s no way this is about data anymore. He wants this. He needs this. 

He can't have enough. 

Walter’s body seizes underneath him, thrashing and thrusting, forcing Alexander to still as he reaches his peak with a choked whimper. Heat travels upward, the condom thin enough for Alexander to feel every throb and every choked whisper. He pulls himself off and away, leaving Walter splayed out on the bed as he retreats into the bathroom and has a quick, efficient shower, grabbing a change of clothes on the way.

When he emerges, Walter is still on the bed, but he hasn’t appeared to have done a lot. The metal eyepatch is over his eye once more, and he’s carefully attaching his prosthetic arm back into the socket on his shoulder. It zings audibly, Walter’s face scrunching up for just a second. His cheeks are still ruddy and his neck sports shades of purple and red.

He should tell Walter to get dressed and leave. The debt is paid and an apology of sorts was made and the guilt is gone, free from his conscience. And yet despite the facts Alexander walks over to the freezer and retrieves a cold pack, returning to Walter’s side to apply it at where the swelling is most likely to occur.

Walter is looking at him again with that strange expression. He does not yet know why but he doesn’t think it’s negative. In fact, it almost looks affectionate. He can’t recall anyone else other than his own parents looking at him with such a look.

"Didn’t take you as the aftercare type," Walter whispers. His voice is slowly returning to him, but it will take a few minutes at minimum.

"This is just so you will get out of my residence quicker."

"Don’t try and pull the wool over my eyes. I ain’t a drongo."

Alexander frowns. "This injury is partially my fault. It wasn’t supposed to be part of my…data retrieval."

"That so?" Walter chuckles. He rolls his metal shoulder and flexes his fingers. The movements look uncannily like making chords on a guitar. "Surprised me. You looked sexy as up there. Thought maybe you enjoyed it just as much as I did."

He forces down the shame that threatens to bubble to the surface. "I choked you the way I did because I did not desire for you to perish at that moment. I can, however, change my mind anytime I like." His eyes flicker to the injury. "I hope you do not plan on going out in public like this."

"Why? You think people gonna know why?"

"It is logical to assume. All the legends know we had a private meeting together."

"Well, what are they gonna believe? That we pashed and bashed, or that we had a bit of a biffo before making up?" 

Alexander's lips thins. "I suppose they will believe what they want to believe," he says eventually.

"Suppose they will," Walter agrees.

Alexander watches as Walter tests his prosthetic arm, doing a serious of exercises and gestures for calibration. Somehow he looks more naked like this, with only his prosthetics to cover his body. Perhaps there is more to Walter than meets the eye. 

"I assume my apology has been accepted," Alexander says.

"Good as the fuck was, that ain’t a proper apology, mate." He lifts himself up and extracts his discarded clothes strewn across the room.

"I did feel some guilt over what I said to you that day." After a few awkward seconds, Alexander adds, "I do feel guilty over what I said."

After a few seconds of fumbling with his shirt, Walter asks, "Seriously? That's your apology?"

"I could give you an apology but we both know I would not mean it, so it would be meaningless. So I give you the next best thing. I misjudged you, and saw you as a bigger threat than you are." He pauses before adding, "I was wrong."

Walter laughs softly, shaking his head. Before Alexander can inquire, he says, "Ya know, I had my own misjudgment about you."

"How so?"

"You play a big, mean game. Always have to be the big guy that can control anything. But underneath it all," Walter brushes his metal knuckles across Alexander’s jaw, "you’re warm and fuzzy like a teddy bear. When ya wanna, at least."

He’s not warm or fuzzy, he wants to say, but the words won’t come out. He’s focused and sharp and intelligent. All things that cannot be said of teddy bears. But he doesn't have it in him to correct Walter. He goes back to his bathroom and grabs a small hand towel, wetting it with water before returning to hand it over to Walter, who dabs it over his forehead.

Walter pulls his pants up and hastily clips the belt on. He’s silent for several seconds, mulling something over in his head. When he's fully dressed, he stands up, and Alexander is compelled to follow suit. Walter makes a show of checking the clock on the wall, and then he turns to Alexander and says something unexpected.

"Well, we still got plenty of night to burn. Ya wanna go get a coldie back at the Lounge?"

Alexander is confused. "You got what you desired. You have no more obligations with me."

"I didn't come here to pash, bash, and dash. We can still hang out, can't we?"

There has to be something else here. "I never said that the intercourse we conducted moments ago will be a recurring occurrence."

"It doesn't have to be if you don't wanna. Doesn't stop me from wanting to have a cold one with you. Ya know, break the ice for real."

Alexander can't help but shake his head. "So you want to be in my presence with no incentive whatsoever." How ridiculous. 

"Is this a no?"

Alexander stops to pick up his mask and gently affix it back onto his face. He doesn't bother with the goggles this time. Careless, he might say another time, on another occasion. A lot can be seen from the eyes alone.

He lifts up one finger. "Just one drink. No more than that."

"Hey, that's the spirit. Let's get goin'!" 

Alexander leads Walter out of the apartment and locks the front door behind him. As they walk down to the hallway, Alexander is reminded by some advice he got from a mutual colleague a while back about opening up conversations with new contacts. Try as he might, he doubts he is going to shake Walter from him easily. In the future, he might even make a respectable ally. A scientist can only do so much alone, but even they must make contacts and forge bonds to establish connections. Walter will just be the newest connection.

This might be a suitable icebreaker for the situation. "Do you have a favourite flower, Fitzroy?"

Fuse turns his head. "Where'd this come from?"

"Just answer the question."

"I dunno, never cared too much about them," he shrugs. "Maybe sunflowers? They don't grow on Salvo, but I've seen pictures of them. They look pretty enough. Why you ask?"

Caustic can't help but chuckle. _Helianthus annuus._ What a fascinating coincidence. What an obvious choice for a man such as him.

"Hey, is that a smile I got out of you?" Fuse points out, grinning himself.

This time Caustic chuckles louder, just enough for Fuse to hear. "Enjoy it while it lasts, Fitzroy. No one else will believe you if you told them anyway." 


End file.
